


Sherlock, Sugar Daddy John, and The No Good Very Bad Charity Function

by Sexxica



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Condoms, Crying, Daddy Kink, Flirting, Happy Ending, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Possessive John, Punishment, Rentboys, Sherlock Flirts, Sherlock is forced to watch his Daddy with another man, Spanking, Sugar Baby Sherlock, Sugar Daddy, Sugar Daddy John, Twink Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 23:31:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2791700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sexxica/pseuds/Sexxica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Former street kid/rentboy Sherlock accompanies his Daddy to a charity function.  Things, to say the very least, do not go well at all, and Sherlock's trashy behaviour earns him a devastating punishment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock, Sugar Daddy John, and The No Good Very Bad Charity Function

**Author's Note:**

> This originally appeared (although slightly different in parts) as a not-so-little back-and-forth exchange between me [Sexxica](http://sexxicawrites.tumblr.com/) and an Anonymous Co-Author over on Tumblr. 
> 
> Each page break indicates a change of author, and it both starts and ends with my Co-Author.

Sherlock agreed early on that he would accompany John to these things--dinner parties with colleagues, holiday ‘dos, and charity events like the one tonight--but now he almost wishes he hadn’t. He had only the vaguest idea what to expect, was so eager to please his daddy and so relieved to be off the streets he figured he could fake his way through--how different could it be to the dates he’d had with older men in the past?

 

Very different, as it turned out.

 

There were clothes laid out on his bed when he got out of the shower earlier that evening, so now he was wearing one of the lovely suits John had made for him by his tailor, and a crisp, tight-fitting shirt Sherlock left open at the neck (“Where’s your necktie, sweetheart? It matches the pocket square.” “Umm, I don’t like them much. . .isn’t this OK?” and John had slipped his hand into the open collar of the shirt, caressed Sherlock’s neck with his fingers, given in with a growl about how he can’t resist Sherlock’s pout so he’d better please be careful about it in future). The shoes pinch a bit but they probably cost more than Sherlock ever made in a whole weekend of dates, so he doesn’t complain.

 

John is so easy with people; everyone likes him, it’s obvious. He shakes hands with the men, claps them on the shoulder, all the wives are a bit too young but still much older than Sherlock, and John kisses their cheeks and tells them how lovely they are, asks about their children by name.

 

He introduces Sherlock but doesn’t say, “my boyfriend,” or “my friend,” or even “my intern” (Sherlock has never had an internship, but he has been “my intern” more times than he can count). He just says, “I’d like you to meet Sherlock Holmes,” and the people look Sherlock up and down and smile weird, fake smiles specifically designed to put Sherlock off, let him know he is marked out as someone who doesn’t belong here, is only tolerated because he is with John Watson, whom everyone respects and admires. When they ask Sherlock what he does, they mean what is his job (hasn’t got one), or what is he studying (nothing yet; it’s still in the works and anyway he isn’t sure if he’ll do chemistry or maths), so he has no ready answer. He fumbles, looks to John for help, eventually blurts that he’s a student. Thankfully no one presses him on the details; they were only being polite for John’s sake, anyway. Sherlock feels sure every one of them already assumes they have him figured out.

 

John excuses himself to cross the room, gladhand another acquaintance, and Sherlock is left with two men, each on their own, and a couple--she’s already wobbling on her heels, gesturing too broadly with her champagne glass, talking loud, and he’s trying to quiet her. One of the other men gives Sherlock a look Sherlock pretends not to know the meaning of, and offers to get him a drink from the bar, which feels like another trap, so Sherlock just asks for lager, and when the man returns with it, Sherlock sets aside the glass tipped upside down atop it and drinks it straight from the bottle. The drunk woman seems disapproving of this, and her husband hustles her away.

 

The man who bought Sherlock’s beer likewise sets his glass aside and clinks the neck of his bottle against Sherlock’s. Sherlock smiles, takes a long pull from the bottle, maintaining eye contact with the man, who is tall and sturdy, fiftyish, greying at the temples. Sherlock winks cheekily, which elicits a grin from the man.

 

“You have excellent taste,” Sherlock says, and skims his long middle finger down the man’s necktie. “Should have guessed; you’re one of the few people here with any style at all.”

 

“Have to keep up with the times in my line of business.”

 

Sherlock plays along. “Which is?” He has already finished the beer.

 

“I own a couple of restaurants, a nightclub,” he says, bragging but trying to play it off like he is being modest. “Chain of upscale snooker halls.”

 

“Maybe you’ll give me a VIP pass,” Sherlock demands flirtily. “But first, maybe another of these?” He waves the empty bottle at the man, so easily charmed, and off he goes back to the bar to fetch Sherlock another. No sooner has he gone than a different man--John introduced him earlier but Sherlock has forgotten his name, thinks he might be a banker--is motioning to him from across the room, and out of curiosity as much as John’s expectation that Sherlock be sociable, Sherlock responds to the summoning.

 

Over the next half hour, Sherlock flatters, and acts interested, and pays compliments to a small crowd of men behaving like circling sharks, like a pack of dogs establishing who is alpha. He eats up the attention, gulps down the free beer, gives the people what they want, because it is easy and familiar and John has all but abandoned him in the midst of this boring, stuffy party full of middle-aged strangers judging him for being young and pretty, and for having entered on the arm of a wealthy man twice his age wearing clothes he could never afford, not having an answer about what he “does.”

 

Eventually he excuses himself to the mens’ room, and right behind him, in marches John, turns Sherlock by his shoulder to face him. “Quite a show you’re putting on out there,” he mutters through gritted teeth, crowding close to Sherlock, forcing him backward without even touching him. “I didn’t bring you here tonight so you could  work every old queen wearing a Chopard watch.” He is invading Sherlock’s space; every step Sherlock takes backward, John matches by moving closer. His voice is quiet, but stern, and Sherlock knows he is fucking it all up for himself, falling back on being the party boy, joking with men about the thickness of their wallets and how Sherlock just loves to have a good time. “Settle down, now, Sherlock, or there will be consequences.”

 

Sherlock stammers, “S-sorry, Daddy.”

 

“I didn’t hear?” John prompts, turning his ear toward Sherlock, pressing Sherlock all the way up against the wall.

 

“I’m sorry.” He pets John’s lapel, looks at him from under his eyelashes. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

 

“Mm,” John hums, and his face softens just slightly. “I know this is new to you, but try to act like a grown-up.”

 

“Sorry,” Sherlock says again, barely a whisper.

 

* * *

 

 

John absolutely seethes with jealousy over the way Sherlock is smiling and laughing and batting his eyelashes at everyone other than him.  Touching their arms, smoothing his long fingers down their ties, playing coy.  But, John doesn’t know it’s to mask how nervous he feels, how completely out of place and out of touch with what he is meant to be doing here, so when Sherlock excuses himself to the loo, John stalks after him.

 

John corners him, prys the bottle of beer out of Sherlock’s hand, wraps his lips around it and chugs the rest of the contents, putting the empty bottle on the counter.  Sherlock swallows hard as he watches.

 

“I know you’re sorry, Sherlock,”  John starts off kindly, but then his voice lowers to a near growl, “but not nearly as sorry as you’ll be if you don’t get yourself under control.”  John leans in close, “If you can get through the next hour without behaving like an absolute tart, I’ll make it worth your while.  And if not,” John shrugs, “well, let’s just say you’ll regret it when I leave you aching and on edge and who knows how long it will be until I feel you’ve been properly punished.  You understand, yes?”  he asks and Sherlock just nods stiffly, all too nervous and now afraid of disappointing his Daddy even more.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  


Sherlock and John return to the dull, stuffy charity party and Sherlock  really wishes his daddy would have let him finish that beer because his nerves are an electric wreck in his head. He doesn’t know which fork to use, he doesn’t know anything about debates in parliament, he doesn’t even know what this party is raising money for (a disease? or horses? a horse disease?). What he knows is how to shake his arse in tight trousers, how to talk a moony-eyed, married father of three out of all the cash in his wallet, and the safest places to sleep rough where neither cops nor pimps will roust one at three a.m.

 

John has made it clear Sherlock’s fall-back plan of flirting his way through the evening is not on, and he wants to be good, wants his daddy to see he is really trying to do everything right…He longs to finish the night pleasing John, on his knees or in John’s bed, hearing his daddy tell him he is pretty and good and makes him proud. But now the damage is done; John’s right, Sherlock has been acting like a tart, widening his eyes, letting touches linger too long, and now they’re all sitting at tables set with alarming numbers of drinking glasses and tall stacks of plates (why so many?), and people are giving speeches and urging each other to be generous for the sake of the sick horses (?), and while John’s hand rests on Sherlock’s thigh beneath the satiny tablecloth, the man on Sherlock’s other side has that look in his eyes that Sherlock recognizes—like he wants to kill and eat him—and now Sherlock is well and truly stuck.

 

He tries to ignore the man, gives one word answers to questions, turns his body a little more toward John’s, gulps sour, pinched-tasting wine from his glass and wishes for more. John leans over to him halfway through the meal and says, “Don’t be rude, Sherlock; I have to work with Richard four days a week. What will he think of me if I let you be rude to him?” He was hoping his daddy would save him, somehow, but instead he’s making it more difficult for Sherlock to figure out what to do to please him. Don’t flirt, but don’t be rude. What else is there? Sherlock gives John a pleading look, but John only pats his thigh under the table and says quietly, “Go on. I know how charming you can be, and how interesting and smart you are. Richard’s just being friendly.” Surely John realises Richard is no such thing. John leans very close, then, his breath warm on Sherlock’s cheek, and hisses, “But don’t act like a  slut .”

 

Well, if John wants to test him, Sherlock knows how to deal with a test that seems designed to make him fail: He’ll fail it. Spectacularly.

 

"Did I see a key for an Aston Martin come out of your pocket earlier, Dr Hall?" Sherlock says, and lays his hand on Richard’s wrist, stroking the wiry grey-and-beige hairs beside his Rolex. "I’ve always wanted to ride in one. I understand they’re very powerful."

 

"You caught that, did you?" The man’s eyes crinkle as he returns Sherlock’s smile. "Maybe when these bores are through with their speeches we can sneak out of here long enough that I can take you for a ride."

 

"Can I drive?"

 

Richard laughs. Beneath the table, John pinches the inside of Sherlock’s thigh quite hard, and Sherlock pushes his hand away, turns away from him.

 

"My boy, I get the impression you can do just about anything and excel at it."

 

Sherlock lifts Richard’s wine glass. “You’re not going to finish this, are you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, swigs it down, licks his lips. “Mmm.”

 

John consults his phone, then announces, “They’re paging me for a crush injury—” he rises, apologizes to their table mates with a gracious motion not unlike a bow. “Come on, Sherlock, I’ll have the car drop you home on the way. Good night, everyone.” He passes a check to a woman on his other side. “I hope this helps the cause.”

 

Sherlock considers for a few seconds whether it’s worth protesting, but he can see John’s neck is red—there is practically steam coming out of his ears—and knows he has made his point. He is immediately sorry, and all he wants is to please his daddy and be forgiven. Why is he such a stupid brat? What was John always saying about Sherlock’s nearly automatic response to every choice being to make the worst one? Sherlock rises and John motions for him to walk ahead. When they are out of earshot of the table, He presses his palm against the small of Sherlock’s back and mutters, “You are going to regret every second of what just went on.  Believe it.”

 

"I’ll make it up to you," Sherlock says urgently, under his breath. "I’m sorry. I—"

 

By now they are outside, and John’s car is waiting, and the driver opens the door for them but John dismisses him with a wave of his hand and he retreats into the driver’s seat.

 

"Get in. On the floor."

 

"But…Daddy. I’m sorry! I don’t know how to behave at these posh things. I was trying, but—"

 

John’s eyes flash fire and Sherlock acquiesces, does as he’s told, folding his long limbs onto the carpeted floor of the car, elbows and knees, trying not to muss the beautiful suit John’s bought him because that will probably only get him  more trouble. John settles into the seat, pulls the door shut, and Sherlock finds himself shocked at the force of John’s hand balled up in his hair, pulling his head hard so Sherlock can’t help but look in his eyes.

 

"All I try to do is take care of you, Sherlock," John says then, and his voice has melted from furious into something much worse: disappointed. "And you humiliate me like this? In front of my colleagues? You’re shameful."

 

Sherlock swallows a lump in his throat.

 

"Maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you really are just hopeless street trash."

 

"I don’t want to be," Sherlock says then, and it comes out a whiney whisper, and there are tears burning in his eyes. "I want to be good."

 

"Hmm. I wonder."

 

Sherlock feels the familiar, crazy, scrambling need in his head and his heart to fix this, make his daddy love him and say he is good…Sherlock needs to soothe daddy’s anger and take away his disappointment, needs it more than anything. John is still holding his hair so he can’t move his head, but Sherlock strokes his hands up John’s thighs and coos, “I want to be your good boy. I just wasn’t ready yet. I promise I’m trying to make you proud of me.” John lets his thighs fall open and Sherlock’s thin fingers stroke across the front placket of his trousers, searching for evidence that daddy still wants him, that daddy is pleased with him, and John lets go of his hair and Sherlock immediately presses his face into the V of John’s legs, nuzzling, exhaling hot breath, mouthing and nipping and humming and whining…and here is the proof that he can please his daddy, rising hot and hard beneath his open lips. Sherlock goes to work opening John’s trousers.

 

John blows out a deep, almost angry-sounding hum and takes Sherlock’s face between his strong, careful hands. He looks hard at Sherlock, now caressing John’s thick length with hurried, desperate fingers. “You really are a tart,” John intones, and Sherlock feels more ashamed than he ever has in his life. “Remember when you told me your cock belongs to me, now?”

 

Sherlock tries to nod but John is holding his face too tightly. “Yes.”

 

"And every other part of you, too. How am I going to take care of you if you don’t give yourself to me? Hmm? I thought that’s what you wanted."

 

"It is. I want you to take care of me, Daddy."

 

"None of that, either, for a while. Right now I don’t feel very warmly toward you, so I don’t want you to call me that."

 

Sherlock feels this in his gut, like being stabbed. His eyes are wet and all he wants to do is swallow John’s cock down until he chokes and cries, so John will see how badly he wants to please him and be his good boy.

 

"You want to act like a slut, you feel free, Sherlock. But I don’t think you’ll like where it lands you." John lets go of his face, grabs the hair at the back of Sherlock’s head with one hand. "Now then. I can see you want a chance to make it up to me, so I’ll let you try. But don’t think for a second you’re going to get anything in return. Boys who act like whores don’t get treated kindly."

 

Sherlock nods, and shifts his posture—ignores the pins and needles in his calves and feet, and opens his throat to swallow his big daddy down.

 

 

* * *

The blowjob is quick and filthy, with Sherlock letting his Daddy thrust hard against the back of his throat, making him choke and forcing tears down his cheeks.  Except Sherlock thinks that the tears would be there anyway and the only thing stopping him from sobbing is the fact that he can’t get enough air into his lungs to even start.  John doesn’t even look at him, just holds painfully tight onto his hair and uses his mouth roughly until he comes with a grunt and immediately shoves Sherlock aside, letting him fall onto the floor of the car at his feet.

 

Sherlock stays curled up at his Daddy’s feet until they get home, then trails silently and shamefaced after him into the posh flat.  “Get in the bedroom and strip,”  John says icily, hanging up his jacket and toeing off his shoes.  Sherlock nods and rushes to obey, stripping quickly, but taking care to fold his trousers neatly, hang up his shirt, and make sure his socks and pants land  inside the laundry basket, not just in the vicinity.  He stands at the side of the bed, trying not to fidget and trying not to cry as he waits for his Daddy.  He can hear John fixing himself a drink -- the clink of ice in a tumbler and no doubt John’s favourite scotch being poured over it.  

 

Sherlock tries not to look too fragile when John comes into the bedroom, his sleeves rolled up, tie loose, and yes, a large glass of scotch looking golden and inviting in his hand.  John invades Sherlock’s space, leaning into him as he sets his glass down on the nightstand behind Sherlock.  His breath already smells smoky and sharp.

 

“So you don’t think you’re street trash, huh?  Think you’re worth my time?”  John says, his voice getting under Sherlock’s skin, making him squirm, making tears prick at his eyes again.

 

“Y-yes Da…,”  Sherlock swallows the word, remembering what John said, “Sir.” he finishes weakly.  John nods once.  At least, Sherlock thinks, he’s looking at him again.

 

“Prove it.  On the bed, on your knees, face the wall.”  John instructs and Sherlock does so while John leans in, reaching behind the headboard and fishing out the restraints that stay chained to the bars.  Sherlock bends down, resting on his forearms and John buckles the thick black leather cuffs snugly onto his wrists.  Next comes the matching set of ankle cuffs that John clips a short spreader bar to.  

 

Sherlock is already breathing heavily, not exactly sure what is about to happen, but he has a pretty good idea, especially when he hears the metallic tink and shuffle of John taking off his belt.  His only warning is the sound of the belt slicing through the air before it hits with a  thwack and sting that makes Sherlock gasp and pull at his restraints.  

 

John doesn’t hold back.  He paints Sherlock’s arse with blows that quickly turn to thick pink stripes on his pale skin.  He strikes hard enough that some of them will surely bruise come morning and give Sherlock a lasting reminder of what bad behaviour gets him.  When Sherlock is gasping, crying out and flinching with each slap of the belt, and when his entire arse, and the tops of his thighs are an angry and sore looking red, John stops.  He detaches the spreader bar, but leaves the ankle cuffs on, pushing Sherlock roughly over onto his side on the bed.

 

John leers at him, “you really are a slut, aren’t you?”  And it isn’t until John has picked up his drink and is walking out of the bedroom, leaving Sherlock chained to the headboard by his wrists, that Sherlock realizes he is hard.  He groans once he thinks John is out of earshot.  His body has betrayed him, mistaking pain for pleasure because John was the one doling it out.

Sherlock stretches a little, feeling the skin of his backside pull painfully tight and radiating heat.  His cock throbs with it and he groans again.  He doesn’t want to be turned on, doesn’t want to prove John right about him that he’s just a tramp and has no self control. 

 

Sherlock curls up on himself as much as his stinging arse will allow and tries to will his erection away.  He also tries hard not to replay every single scene leading up to this in his mind, over and over again.  Especially not the part where John said he didn’t want Sherlock calling him Daddy, or the cold look in his eyes as he did.  Sherlock doesn’t want to see or hear those bits ever again.  He tries not to cry and he waits.

 

 

* * *

 

It’s possible John has left him here with no intention to return. After all, he threatened to leave Sherlock on edge, to not let him come—teach Sherlock a lesson about the consequences of acting like a slag in front of John’s fancy friends. And here he is, hands bound to the headboard, backside throbbing from the hefty thwack of John’s belt, cock aching and stiff, needing his daddy to forgive him. After a few minutes that seem to go on forever, Sherlock’s tears have dried in the corners of his eyes, but he feels desperate, needy, edge-of-uncomfortable. The few muffled sounds he’s heard from outside the bedroom told him nothing: John could be in his office, or watching the telly in the den, or he could have gone to sleep in a guest bedroom. 

Mostly it’s been quiet, and all Sherlock hears is his hair rustling against the pillow when he moves his head, and sometimes the thrum of his pulse.

 

He whines, shifts his pelvis—inflaming his sore bottom and only worsening the needy ache of his hard prick. He could roll onto his belly, he supposes, rut against the bed—the sheets are soft as water, it wouldn’t be awful. But John could come back, and Sherlock is sure his punishment (which already seems as if it has gone on forever, might go on still longer than forever) would be even more severe, if John caught him pleasing himself. And even if he didn’t come back tonight, there’d be evidence of Sherlock’s selfish, sex-mad behavior all over the sheets—all over Sherlock—and surely his daddy would be displeased. He might even send Sherlock away.

 

He’ll try to behave himself, and when his daddy comes back Sherlock will be a damn  angel . He’ll do as he’s told. He’ll get online and study manners, and politics, and how to have a conversation without every stupid word out of his mouth hinting at what a cock-slut he is. Sherlock tries to think about awful things, repellant, unsexy things, tries to kill his erection. It works only slightly, and as soon as he moves his body against the sheets, even a little, the pain in his arse reignites, which makes him think of John, which makes him think of John’s mouth, John’s hands, John’s gorgeous big cock, and he’s right back where he started.

 

Just as Sherlock is beginning to think he will have to try to sleep with a raging hard-on and his wrists cuffed to the bed, noise and voices he can’t quite make out distract him from his agony. John, and another male voice: Sherlock can’t make out the words, just John in a tone that sounds like he is giving instructions, and affirmative sounds from the other voice: quick double-hums and staccato barks that could be “yep” or “OK”. This is nothing unusual; John has housecleaners and the driver and a bloke who picks up his laundry once a week, and of course the building has doormen and a handyman and two concierges. Sherlock feels a thrill of humiliation; the bedroom is well away from the main living area but John has left the door open.

 

John and the other voice fall quiet, and Sherlock considers calling out to John, apologizing, promising to be good, whatever it takes for his daddy to take him in hand and let him come because he is positively dying of it now. Before he gets a chance, though, John comes in, eyes a bit softer (the scotch has done its work) but jaw still tightly set. John says nothing, and Sherlock watches with wide eyes and breath that comes quicker between his parted lips as John drops his trousers and tosses them over the back of an armchair, then takes off his necktie.  Sherlock longs to spill a torrent of apologies and promises but waits to speak until spoken to.

 

“Listen to you, panting like a dog,” John says, too quietly. Sherlock whimpers and closes his mouth. John stands beside the bed, opens the nightstand drawer and rifles through it. “Come here, now, I need your help.” Sherlock rolls from one side, onto his back, to his other side so now he is facing John, and his daddy stares down at his swollen prick and looks disapproving. “Thinking about those blokes you were working earlier this evening, are you? Richard and his  powerful Aston Martin?”

 

“No!” Sherlock answers immediately. He tugs against the wrist restraints, trying to reach for John, he can’t help himself. “Daddy, please…” It comes out whiny, but Sherlock is too desperate to be proud. He wants his daddy to know how sorry he is and how much he wants to please him.

 

“Shh.”

 

John makes quick work of the foil wrap on a condom, hefts his half-hard prick from his boxers. Sherlock pulls in a little gasp, moistens his lips with his tongue, getting ready. Instead of the salty heat of John’s cock, though, what lands in his mouth is the condom.

 

“I’m sure a shameless slut like you has done this before,” John says, and his husky whisper is at odds with the cruelty of the words. “Go on, then.” John angles his body, and Sherlock strains his shoulders and neck to raise his head, and with cunning tongue and tightening/stretching lips, he manages somehow to work the condom onto John’s cock. John thrusts slowly but steadily into Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock struggles to keep up, unrolling the condom with his tongue, making space, minding his teeth, trying to breathe.

 

Sherlock tries to show with his diligence and a few noises that he is eager, grateful—his daddy is going to fuck him, and he will probably be far from sweet about it, and it will probably hurt, but if Sherlock behaves himself through it and his daddy feels good afterward…maybe he’ll finally be forgiven, and John won’t put him back out on the streets, after all.

 

Mission accomplished, Sherlock lets his aching neck relax and his head falls back onto the pillow. John makes some final adjustments with his fingertips, and his cock is fully hard now, and Sherlock feels a bit pleased with himself over it. But then instead of getting onto the bed with him, John goes to the open bedroom door.

 

“I’m ready for you now,” John says, a bit loudly. A crackle-thin layer of ice creeps beneath Sherlock’s skin.

 

And in walks a very young, very pretty man, and he is naked, and he presses the entire lean length of the front of his body up against John’s, goes to work on the buttons of John’s shirt, right there in the doorway.

 

“Aren’t you a sight to behold,” John says, voice all syrup and butter. Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek.

 

The discussion he hadn’t-quite-heard was John negotiating with this rent boy. John’s instructions, a list of his desires, the script they would follow. And this boy with the ginger hair combed back from his high forehead, the smattering of freckles across his shoulders and chest, his ostentatious nipple rings…he had listened to John,  Sherlock’s John, Sherlock’s  daddy , and he had said, “M-hm. M-hm. OK. Yep.”

 

Sherlock wants to run away. Nevermind whether John would put him out. He wants to leave, all on his own.

 

The boy has unbuttoned John’s shirt and pushes it back from his shoulders and now John is naked, cock proud and heavy, and Sherlock wants to nuzzle his face against the hair on his daddy’s thighs.

 

“Where do you want me, big man?” the boy says, and Sherlock knows that tone, has used it, wonders if it sounded so transparently fake coming out of his mouth.

 

“On the bed, sweetheart,” John says, and the endearment wasted on this stranger causes something in Sherlock to bend near to breaking. “Pretty thing. Hands and knees, if you’re comfortable.”

 

They are behaving as if Sherlock isn’t there. It’s part of his punishment. Sherlock’s eyes burn. He does not want to cry in front of this boy, this boy who will take his daddy’s money and doesn’t even care that his daddy is kind, and generous, and safe.

 

The boy gets on the bed, and Sherlock turns away.

 

“Unh-uh,” John scolds, and he is rummaging in the night table drawer again. “On your back, you. Eyes open, too.” He smacks the side of Sherlock’s thigh with the back of his hand and Sherlock looks at him pleadingly. Is John really going to make him watch while he fucks this other boy? Clearly so, as John is climbing up behind the boy, running his perfect, guiding hands up and over the boy’s rump, all the way up his back, up his neck and through his hair. The boy hums and closes his eyes and rolls his head against John’s hand . Now who’s acting like a slut?

 

“That feels nice,” the boy says. “Thank you, sir.”

 

“What lovely manners you have,” John says in his burnt-honey voice. He looks pointedly at Sherlock. “Aren’t you sweet.”

 

Sherlock can’t hold his tears anymore; his daddy’s face blurs and shatters through them.

 

John is stroking his hands all over the boy’s backside, now, petting him, and Sherlock can imagine—can remember—how nice it feels, and the fact his own arse is still an aching, bruised reminder of his seedy behavior makes him feel very hollow and small.

 

John leans over Sherlock. “Open your mouth,” he says plainly, in a voice nothing like the one he uses to speak to this other boy, this whore. Sherlock does as he is told and John sticks two fingers in, swirls them roughly around on Sherlock’s tongue, makes him gag a little. John is talking to the boy again as he withdraws his fingers from Sherlock’s mouth, saying, “You are just gorgeous, do you know that?” John dips his head a bit, narrows his eyes, and even though Sherlock can’t see it (thank whatever! he definitely does not want to see it), he knows John is looking at the boy’s asshole, probing at it with fingertips slick with Sherlock’s saliva. Sherlock wants to vomit. He would happily take  twenty more swats with the belt, if it meant not having to endure this.

 

John groans a bit, and the boy catches his breath. “Oh, that’s lovely…so tight…ah, but… there .” John sounds so pleased; Sherlock feels seasick and since his arms are still bound to the headboard, he turns his head to wipe his tears on his bicep. The boy lets out a whorish moan and Sherlock wants to think it’s faked for John’s benefit, but doubts that it is.

 

John has taken a tube of slick from the drawer and he drizzles a bit between the boys buttocks and the boy pushes back against John’s hand and mewls. “Very eager, you pretty, sweet boy. I’ll take good care of you. You know that, right?”

 

“Yes, sir. You already are.”

 

John hums his approval. “There’s nothing I like so well as an eager boy who lets me make him feel good. I can tell  you’re no trouble to anyone.”

 

“I hope I’m not, sir,” the boy says, and he pushes back again, and John strokes one hand over his arching, rolling back.

 

“You’re very good,” John says. “A very good boy. Very sweet.” Sherlock is watching the muscles in John’s shoulder and bicep and chest as he works the boy open with his hand. “Everything’s easy when you settle down and behave,” John prompts, and Sherlock knows it’s meant for him: good boys get daddy’s hands and cock and his kind voice and his praise; bad boys get the belt, get left with needy pricks, get forced to watch daddy spend his time and money and energy on some other boy.

 

“That feels nice, sir,” the boy breathes, “Thank you. You’re so kind.”

 

“Mm. I can be.” John is looking hard at Sherlock, into his face, as if he is searching for something, and Sherlock tries hard to arrange his expression into one of remorse. He would give anything right now for his daddy to tell this boy to get lost, and Sherlock would do everything this boy is willing to do, and  more , and  better . “You know, precious,” John says suddenly, “If you like, you can call me—“

 

No, no, no! Sherlock screams inside his head, and he can’t keep his lips shut and a sob shudders out of him so hard his chest hurts.

 

“—Daddy,” John finishes.

 

The boy melts down onto his forearms, nuzzles John’s pillow, sighs, “Mmm…thank you, Daddy. I like that.”

 

“I’m so glad,” John says in his silkiest voice. Sherlock is crying in earnest now, he can’t bear it, his heart is breaking, he hates himself, he’s such a stupid, selfish brat. He’s street trash. He’s a tart. He’s unlovable and unworthy of anyone’s kindness, especially John’s. There is something  wrong with him, he knows it now, always suspected it but now knows for sure.

 

John carries on as if Sherlock is not a teary-eyed, snot-nosed wreck on the bed just a foot away from him. Sherlock wants to say he understands, he’s learned his lesson, from now on he will only do what John tells him—everything he tells him—because John is kind and good and wise, and Sherlock is  nothing . He wants John to make him into something; anything would be better than what he is now. But Sherlock only weeps. He is so ashamed.

 

“I think you’re ready for me, darling,” John says then, and he slides his knees forward on the bed. “Do you think so?”

 

“Mmm, yes, Daddy,” the boy says, and Sherlock wants to bite his lips right off his face. “ Please ,” the boy adds.

 

John doesn’t say anything else, just shifts, and leans, and grunts, and then the boy is letting out an impossibly long, low moan, and John starts to rock against him, hips pressing slowly but firmly forward, then slowly back, then forward again, not fast, but steady, and the boy’s breath breaks into ragged gasping and he rocks his face against the pillow. Worst of all, though, is when John looks at Sherlock and his eyes are hard and cold, nothing in them that Sherlock recognizes.

 

John goes on fucking, and the boy goes on moaning, and Sherlock can feel his chin is rumpled, and his eyes are blurred with tears, and his head aches, and his stomach is sick. And damn it all—his cock is still throbbing with salacious need because of John’s cock in his mouth, John’s muscular thighs, John’s voice smoothed and cooing (even though it is not meant for Sherlock)… And Sherlock sees something in John’s face he recognizes, and he knows John is about to come, and he can’t bear to see it when it is not for him.

 

Sherlock screws his eyes shut tight, and he knows—knows in his bones—that he is less than nothing, just a broken whore, and when John tried to treat him kindly, give him things, make him feel special and like he was worth something…Sherlock just  ruined it.

 

And John does come then, Sherlock hears the smack of skin on skin, and John’s gravelly almost-shout, and Sherlock just wants to disappear. He hears John say, “On your way, now,” in a businesslike tone, and feels the weight shift on the bed as the boy gets up and leaves, so strange but they must have arranged it that way. Whatever the reason, Sherlock is glad that ungrateful boy is gone. Then all at once, John’s hands are at his wrists, freeing them, and John is beside him and gathering him up in his arms.

 

“Oh, you sweet, sweet little thing, you sweetheart,” John croons into Sherlock’s ear, and it is the loveliest sound Sherlock as ever heard. “Look how sorry you are. Look at your pretty, sad face…” John nuzzles his nose, the bristle-soft hairs of his beard, all along Sherlock’s cheek, and massages Sherlock’s sore wrists and gently moves his arms so they are around John’s neck. Sherlock sobs with relief that feels like agony. “You pretty thing, I can see that you’re so, so sorry.”

 

“I  am sorry, Daddy,” Sherlock whispers raggedly, “I’m sorry I’m so bad.” He sobs hard, accidentally biting the side of his tongue. “I’m a horrible brat and I don’t know how to behave most of the time, but I know that I want you,  I want you , I want you Daddy, I want you to take care of me. I want you to fix me…” Sherlock hears himself ranting, babbling, and he feels emptied-out and crazy with need.

 

But John is holding him, arms all around him now, lips against his ear, “Shh…you’re a good boy. I know you are. I’ll help you be good.” And now John’s slick fingers are slipping around Sherlock’s cock—so needy it’s almost painful—and he begins to stroke, slow and gentle like his voice, “Shh, hush now, sweetheart. You’re so beautiful, so precious. Do you even know how precious you are?”

 

And something inside Sherlock is unwinding, warming, melting, all at once and it’s…perfect.

 

“Do you even know that you are the sweetest, most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen, ever touched?” John is finding Sherlock’s rhythm, now, adjusting his grip, and Sherlock feels himself rocking up into John’s hand, ignores the ache in his buttocks from the thrashing John gave him because John’s  hand , his  fingers , so good, so  good …

 

“I’m so glad you’re mine, Sherlock,” John whispers against his ear. “I’m so glad I found you. I’m so glad you’re my boy.”

 

Sherlock is an oozy puddle of unreality on the bed, except where John is touching him: one arm around him, holding him together; face nuzzling his ear and neck and cheek and hair; quick, masterful fingers encircling his prick and working him steadily toward that moment of exquisite agony the way only his daddy can. Sherlock wants to say something to John, about how glad he is, too, that he is John’s boy, but now his breath is catching in his throat and his chest is arching up off the bed with each groaning, moaning breath he takes.

 

“Sherlock, you’re perfect. You’re gorgeous. Come for me now, my darling. Come for your daddy, won’t you? You know I’ll always take care of you.”

 

And Sherlock’s orgasm is a shock of heat and cold, both at once, and his long-denied cock jets endlessly, spurting honey-thick fluid across John’s thigh, into the thatch of his pubic hair, between his fingers, and John kisses Sherlock’s cheek and his neck. “Oh, you good boy,” he gentles, and kisses, and Sherlock can feel his mouth curl up at the corners, there against his cheek, and John whispers, “Lesson learned.”

 

And Sherlock says, “Yes, Daddy.”

 


End file.
